


On a Wing and a Prayer

by HDHale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Crash Landing, Illegal Homosexuality, Jewish Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Messenger Stiles, Pilot Peter, Polish Stiles Stilinski, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 14:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDHale/pseuds/HDHale
Summary: Stiles’ legs burn as he powers forward, arms pumping as he forces himself to outrun the increasing pressure in the air of the roar and shriek of the plummeting aircraft. His heart throbs against his ribcage, fear carrying his clumsy legs forward as he scrambles over the first stile cutting through a field he sees and runs for the cover of nearby oak. He now empathises with the rabbits he sees skipping their hind legs and flicking their tails as they shoot across the farmlands from Allison cocking her gun.





	On a Wing and a Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> 1940's AU inspired by Ian Bohen's latest instagram post of him in a sheepskin jacket: 'Early 20th century photo of Peter Hale during his flying days.'
> 
> As always you can request further details via my ask box or in the comments if you have concerns and I’ll do my best to advise. The themes are very mild in the first chapter. Look after yourself.  
> Further notes on this AU and potential continuation in the end comments.

Stiles’ legs burn as he powers forward, arms pumping as he forces himself to outrun the increasing pressure in the air of the roar and shriek of the plummeting aircraft. His heart throbs against his ribcage, fear carrying his clumsy legs forward as he scrambles over the first stile cutting through a field he sees and runs for the cover of nearby oak. He now empathises with the rabbits he sees skipping their hind legs and flicking their tails as they shoot across the farmlands from Allison cocking her gun.

He barely reaches the divide of trees when he feels a gust of hot air rushing over him that sends him flying forwards with the rush of it. He barrels forward over and over, curling into himself to protect himself from falling debris. There’s a steady spluttering growing louder and louder, becoming a roaring, rushing that rattles him through to the bone. Stiles lifts his head in time to see the plume of dirty smoke tailing the plane, as the unseen pilot attempts to level out their descent into the crash into a landing.

The sparrows legs wheels beneath it buckle and break, the aircraft sliding along its belly unevenly. It bounces and the sudden pressure and bounce of its tail causing the whole thing to split in two, bits of debris and wires trailing between. The remaining front of the aircraft where the pilot is trapped swerves, the propeller coming to a halt, the wings tipping it unevenly, where it buries itself into the ground. At the broken tail, short tongues of flame lap out from the split seam of the craft, the light cascading across the furrows of the empty field while smoke continues to billow and spread up to meet the dark clouds up above from each end.

Stiles remains with his beating heart pressed flat against the cold ground, his neck craned to stare with horror at the still remnants of the aircraft, its nose and one wing tipped and buried into the ground where it carved a deep rift into the topsoil. The aircraft lies there a fuming, broken shell of the grand machine it once was. It’s difficult to imagine it ever having been airborne. The rising flames flicker and crackle, the odd clang and creaking coming from the wrecked craft echo through the countryside air and finally, Stiles can hear the distant toll of the warning alarm from the nearby village that had been entirely drowned out by the noise of the dying plane.

He pants steaming breath out into the crisp, night air. His heart is working overtime as he pushes up to his feet and staggers forward, one knitted sock askew and bunched around his ankle awkwardly. He starts at a stumble and is soon speeding towards the battered aircraft. He’s never seen one grounded. It’s bigger than he imagined, but so far he’s only seen the outline of their underbellies against the sky, soaring overhead while he’s been working the fields with the girls, feeling comforted by the purr of their propellers and engines watching over them, or perhaps heading for Europe- Stiles can never be certain. He crossed over to England by boat with his tata, but he imagines he’d love to fly someday, even if the thought is mildly terrifying.

Normally Stiles is partial to a bit of adventure.

The dented nose appears to have the painted maw of a wolf, or some other savage beast alongside it, while its buckled wings bear the bold insignia of a star and stripes. The cockpit itself looks incredibly cramped and dingy from what he can judge, the glass curve of it having cracked from the force of impact, and he thinks he can see the outline of a figure inside among the smoke being blown over it. He hurries closer, morbidly curious and filled with dread on the pilot’s behalf, needing to see the man inside and know who he was before the fire takes him- despite the present danger.

Perhaps Stiles can pull his body out to safety and--

A gloved hand slams against the glass structure and shoves, rattling the cockpit cover. The glass structure shifts in minute increments, but remains fast. Stiles realises it’s wedged somehow. The pilot is trapped. His brain finally catches on that there’s someone still alive in there amongst the smoke and in need of desperate assistance. Impulsivity and desperation to help take over, Stiles taking off again towards the wreckage, tugging the collar of his home-knit jumper over his nose and mouth as a makeshift mask. Even so, the fumes catch tart in the back of his throat, making him cough and stinging his eyes.

Fortunately the angle the aircraft has imbedded into the ground allows him to clamber over the mound of earth forced to spill out around its body and along the wing. His footsteps echo heavy on the metal as he heaves himself up and clambers up on feet and hands towards the cockpit. He tucks his fingers through the gap the pilot has made and tugs hard as he can, using his whole body weight to help draw it open. His jumper slips free of his face and he starts to doubt that he has the strength to help the guy.

It takes a few more attempts, the man inside growling as Stiles grits his teeth and strains to hold back his own fear and frustration, giving it his all. He’s still pulling when a leather encased arm stretches out, followed by a shoulder, a head emerges, then another arm. The man pushes himself up and out through the tiny space, sliding over the side of the aircraft to roll and land on one knee with more grace than Stiles has at his best.

Stiles releases a thick cloud of breath in relief and releases the hatch to thunder back down the wing, using the momentum to keep going as he rushes around to meet the pilot where he’s doubled over. He can still hear the whir of enemy aircraft high in the air, searching them out and the field is a beacon with the smouldering jet, the two of them sitting ducks. The man seems unharmed at a brief glance, his gas mask covering the lower portion of his face, separate goggles strapped over his eyes and his flying hat snug over his head and ears. He suddenly seems unsteady as he raises tall to meet Stiles, but he appears mobile, even if disorientated by what happened. Stiles fills his lungs with as deep a breath as he can take and takes charge.

“Come on!” Stiles shouts as loud as he dares over the din of the wreckage, grabbing for the thick harness strapped around the soldier’s body and tugging at it, dragging him along. He feels an arm loop over his shoulders and he’s thankful his last year has been spent doing hard labour in the fields with the Land Army and running or cycling messages between the villages and towns, else he’d likely have collapsed under the man’s weight. The pilot feels impressively heavy for someone who looks a similar height, even as he manages to carry the majority of his weight limping beside Stiles.

They make their way parallel to the dark thicket of the hedgerow that marks the field boundary, clinging to the shadows and cover provided by the trees where possible. Stiles knows these fields and country lanes as well as the freckles along the backs of his arms. He finds the hidden cut through into the next field and guides the pilot through the dark, the two of them stumbling together, not saying a word for how hard they’re having to pant for breath.

As they reach the village Stiles knows it’s too far to reach the house his father and he have taken up since moving to Britain. So instead he heads across the village square- disregarding the polite: ‘Please stay off the grass’ sign as they stomp right through the flowerbed and onto the green. They make a line for sandstone Norman church that still stands proud with its tall steeple, its burnt umber dim without any lampposts lit during the blackout. Even having had its illustrative stained glass windows taped and boarded up with cardboard and heavy material, and the golden weather vane taken down- lest it catch a glint of light and make their whereabouts known to enemy bombers- the grand silhouette of Beacon Hills Church remains impressive. Thus far Beacon Hills has escaped unscathed, but Stiles knows the closest city has not. The churches have been bombed, true, but in the moment, it looms overhead promising them both a safe haven.

Stiles lifts and turns the heavy, twisted ring of the door handle, pushing one of the pair of wooden doors just slightly ajar. After disentangling himself and forcefully bundling the pilot through the narrow slot, he follows through between as narrow a gap as he can manage- a habit to avoid spilling light out behind himself. He slams his whole, meagre body weight against the panelled door to seal them off and stays leaning there for a few breaths, trying to listen to faraway engines and whirring overhead in the clouds.

He drops his sweat damp brow to the wooden door and gives the briefest, but most heartfelt of thanks to God in his people’s tongue, just as his mother taught him.

A moment later, there's a thud followed by a pained grunt, which has Stiles whipping around from where he’s still plastered to the door. The pilot has slid down the stone wall of their refuge, seated on the well-worn flagstone as his head falls back. His gas mask is dangling free against his collar, his now bared mouth hanging open and his chest heaving even beneath the thick, brown hide of his flying jacket where his harness is askew from being wrenched at in their escape.

Stiles approaches cautiously, sinking to his haunches and then knees as the pilot reaches up with a slow hand to push his goggles and hat up and off. His hand falls heavy as they clatter to the floor and his own lips split in surprise as both their eyes catch with a spark of heartfelt, intense emotion that Stiles cannot name. Even as the pilot’s eyelids flutter heavy with fatigue, his face dirtied with soot and oil, his eyes look the prettiest, summer sky blue Stiles has ever seen. He’s strikingly handsome, even wrung out and dirtied as he is.

The man’s breathing is a little raspy- cause for concern- and Stiles shuffles forward on his bare knees to meet the man, all the more grateful he wore long socks beneath his wool running shorts. His legs still burn and feel wobbly from how fast he’d run and the sudden turn of events. The whole night feels surreal, like a terrible dream.

“Just breathe,” Stiles reminds the man, gently batting away his gloved hand where he’s pawing at his own front where his jacket and harness are awry. His own hands hover there and he glances at the pilot’s soft face and gains a nod of consent.

After studying each other silently for a long moment, Stiles’ trembling, skinny fingers dance lissom across the strappings of the man’s harness.

There’s no warning bells going any longer- these quiet, breathless stretches are when people clutch their loved ones within their cellars and shelters and pray. There’s not any noise from the enemy aircraft somewhere high above now thankfully, but Stiles’ pants remain soft and quick as the pilot’s breathing grows deeper and steadier.

When he’s finally reached around and tugged apart when he can manage of the pilot’s harness away, he works his coat further open, peeling open the plush sheepskin to reveal a much tidier uniform and a broad, heaving chest filling it.

Stiles stares at the swell and fall of it, still gripping the warm, soft skin of the aviator’s jacket, smoothing one hand across his surprisingly near pristine uniform. He hovers there, kneeling beside the pilot’s thighs, slowing drawing his eyes up to where his scarf is wound around a thick, stubble dusted neck. Stiles wets his lips, but doesn’t dare speak in case he shatters the dream-like quality of the moment, instead taking the initiative to slowly unwind the length of soft fabric, watching with fascination as the man swallows, making his throat bob. Immediately Stiles’ eyes go back to the man’s mouth, lips plump, even though somewhat chapped. He licks his own instinctively again as he slips away the soft scarf entirely, letting it spill to the stone floor in a puddle. His other hand keeps himself steady, anchored to the pilot’s sturdy, broad shoulder. He doesn’t want to pull away and can sense his presence is comforting and welcomed. Lydia tells him he has a sweet, cherub face, which makes people trust him until they learn of his love of mischief.

His own breath has finally slowed from panic to something deeper, the excitement shifting from trepidation to curiosity and a familiar, illicit yearning. He lifts his gaze up, meeting those piercing blue eyes which watch him with such sincere reverence that Stiles feels the flush of colour spreading across his cheeks.

“You’re American?” Stiles asks, his fingers leaving scarf on the floor coming to rest lightly against the breast of the soldier’s uniform, testing and flirting with something dangerous. He strokes downwards delicately, feeling the thick fabric, the warmth of his body beneath. The pilot’s head barely dips in agreement, apparently fighting to keep his eyes open- heavy lidded though they are- purely to keep watch of Stiles. “I’m Stiles. I am Polish, yes, but we’re in England.”

Stiles can’t say if the pilot came from one of the bases up north, or how he came to be there, but he’s an ally he has no doubt, even if the uniform and plane could potentially be a ruse. Stiles instinctively knows in his gut. He has kind eyes.

“You-” the pilot finally speaks, voice raspy and faint. Stiles’ eyes widen, latching onto the velvety timbre of his voice. “You saved my life.”

The thought of being heroic in any slight capacity makes Stiles flounder, opening and closing his mouth to object, an awkward noise coming out, eyes darting away towards the shadowy pit of the naves. It looks so cold and void without its congregation and candlelight. He hopes it doesn’t look too dreary and depressing a shelter to the American. He forces himself to turn back, not liking that he’s been flustered into uncharacteristic spluttering and at a loss for words in any language.

Before he can object he was doing what anyone decent would do, or that the pilot has probably done more for him and his family than can ever be repaid, his thought is interrupted.

There’s a determined look in the pilot’s eyes before he makes his move with purpose. A firm grasp cups the back of Stiles’ weedy neck, clamping around so securely and drawing him down. The pilot lifts himself forward and Stiles catches a brief flash of a white smile at his surprise before it softens and their lips meet. Stiles’ lashes flicker and close. He makes a weak sound as he presses into the tender kiss. He keeps his hands gentle on the stranger’s shoulder and chest, only placing the barest pressure to lean in for more. The kiss remains rather chaste, their lips and tongues moving gentle and slow. Rough, chapped lips and stubble catch stickily against Stiles’ even as they try to part for breath once in a while.

They spend a while indulging in the kiss. There is a languid, sensual glide of tongue here and there, but it never amounts to anything more. Eventually they relax and part amicably with a shared smile. Stiles feels dazed and soothed as he sinks back to sit on the floor beside the soldier. The American sags back with the most gleaming and beautiful smile Stiles has ever known. His heart skips.

“You’re an angel.” The man slurs, his head wobbling where it rests against the ancient stone, then rolling and going heavy as he passes out promptly. His head droops towards Stiles’ shoulder, but doesn’t quite reach to rest there comfortably.

Stiles peers down at him a while before fetching a couple of embroidered prayer cushions from beneath the final row of pews. He lines them up together, helping to pillow the man’s head as he lowers him down for the night, tucking him snugly beneath his sheepskin coat. The pilot lifts it back up, offering a strong arm as cover as they nestle beneath the jacket together, sharing warmth. Stiles lets him rest, studying the features of his handsome pilot while he sleeps. They stay there wrapped up together until Stiles is certain it’s finally safe to leave the hallowed walls come dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> I have tentatively planned for a continuation of this, with Polish Jewish Stilinskis, Land Army Allison and Lydia. If continued as planned, the tags will be updated with each chapter and will likely contain some upsetting themes. I'll highlight those as I go along within author comments. However it may please you to know I exclusively write happy endings.
> 
> While I have not read WWII postgrad, I do work in museums where I teach certain aspects of early 20th Century Britain and Europe- including the 1940's, and will also be influenced from first person accounts from family members, autobiographic authors, and historians that I have met and read. That being said, I am not an expert and thus there may be potential inaccuracies or deliberate vagueness where my knowledge is not in-depth, partially covered by the deliberate use of Stiles as the POV surrogate character rather than Peter.
> 
> This is absolutely a work of fiction. This is a WWII themed alternative universe and by no means a particular snapshot of historic events in any great detail. I will only continue if I feel I have done the themes I wish to cover justice in as some of them undoubtedly be contentious, even in passing. If I do continue, I may provide academic articles for my inspiration so you can read up on context if you so desire.
> 
> Please share your thoughts and kudos if you read and enjoyed! Let me know if you would like to read more... and please excuse my rustiness. I don't write nearly enough these days.
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> 


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